Entropy
by gavilana
Summary: "Amid this vast shoal of humanity, there must be countless individuals bearing the most unspeakable sorrow locked tight within their breasts."-Barry Jones. When a case jeopardizes the safety of all London, and the life of someone he never thought he'd see again, Sherlock and John must confront the reason the great detective became a detective in the first place. Sherlock/OC
1. Nightmare

Chapter 1: Nightmare

_ Blood. _

_ It was everywhere. The floor, the walls, the beeping monitors. Sherlock was choking on the smell. He cautiously crept toward the bed, slogging through the red puddles on the floor. He knew full well what he would see there, but also that it was futile to try and back away. _

_ Staring off at the wall, he managed to grab the metal rail. He was not going to look. He was not going to look, but suddenly his head was pointing down and he couldn't breathe. _

_ Dead, hollow eyes stared back amid the red pools and broken bones. He screamed…_

…and fell off the side of his bed in a tangle of sheets. He lay there for a few minutes clutching the carpet, heart pounding, half expecting to sit up and see her laying above him on the mattress leaking blood and tears over the side like waterfalls. Counting silently, he willed the vision back into its cubicle in his mind palace, locking the door behind it.

It had been a long time since he'd dreamed of her. He had hoped it would have stopped altogether, after all these years, but apparently some memories don't die easily.

John burst into his room in a cacophony of thumps and bleary swearing. Sherlock hauled himself into a sitting position and tried to look as dignified as possible. He quickly deduced, given his flatmate's general demeanor, that his scream had not been entirely imaginary.

"Sherlock, what in God's name are you doing in here?" John said. "It's two in the morning!" His eyes danced quickly around the blankets on the floor. "I swear, if you're using again…"

"I'm not." Sherlock cut him off gruffly. "I just…had a bad dream, that's all." He reached over to the side of his bed to pull himself off the floor.

Suddenly, he froze. His stupid transport's heart pounded in his ears and tears came to its eyes. The dream came back in crashing waves as he stared at his bare left wrist. It was gone.

Forgoing all traces of dignity, he threw himself back into the sheets, digging through them in a panic. No, no, no, it couldn't be gone, it just couldn't, what if he lost it…A heavy weight collapsed on top of him, pushing him once more into the carpet. He fought against it fiercely before realizing it was John.

"Sherlock," John cried, compassion and fear shaking his voice, "calm down before you hurt yourself! It was just a dream! It's over now…"

"No, no it'll never be over where is it I can't find it, "Sherlock took a huge breath, his heart beating too fast for him to hear, and kept pawing at the ground. "Oh please don't let her be gone please where is it I can't fail again…"

"What in the world has gotten into the two of you?" Mrs. Hudson had arrived, her eyes groggy and her hair in mint green curlers. "Do you know what time it is? Some of us have to work in the morning…"

"Everything's fine, Mrs. Hudson, he's just had a nightmare..."

Sherlock twisted violently and shoved John in the chest at the same time, dislodging the former army doctor's viselike grip. Ignoring the shout of pain, he ran to his landlady and grabbed her shoulders. "Mrs. Hudson my bracelet is gone have you seen it oh please I need it back!"

"Bracelet? What bracelet?" John pulled himself up from the floor, holding the side of his face where he had banged into the bedside table. Sherlock paused in his panic to throw him a dark look. Really, John should be more observant. He noticed everything about his flatmate from the way he liked his tea to what color socks he wore on what day of the week; you would think John would notice what he wore every day. He turned his attention back to Mrs. Hudson. "Please, have you seen it?" he said through labored breathing.

"Oh, you mean those wooden beads?" The dazed woman gestured toward the stairs. "I found them in your trouser pocket at the Laundromat, dear, I put them in the key bowl when I came home."

He was perfectly aware that, in his haste to reach the stairwell, he had knocked her over, but he knew John would catch her. Besides, there were more pressing matters to think of. He ran down the stairs two at a time, reaching the door of the house in a record time that he would have recorded had he not been in such a state. He upended the key bowl and there they were.

Suddenly exhausted, he sat with his back against the door and slipped the worn brown beads onto his wrist where they belonged. "Put them in my trousers…stupid…be more careful." He turned the round beads slowly around his wrist, like he always did when he got out of control. They were the only reminder he had of her, and of what could have been. And unlike the nightmare, which could go away whenever he wanted, if he lost these beads his work would be done; he would lose sight of why he had started this crusade in the first place. That would never happen. He would not allow it.

His heartbeat finally falling to a normal level, sleep washed over him in full force. By the time John ran down the stairs, he was asleep on the doormat in the fetal position, all worry forgotten.

…

He awoke the next morning, two hours after he normally got up, in his own bed. He sat bolt upright, hoping that the incident last night had been another crazy dream. A quick check of his wrist confirmed the beads were still there, and he allowed himself a smile. He then sealed off all his emotions to prepare for the coming day; as Mycroft had always said, "Caring is not an advantage. It will not help your victims, nor anyone around you." He was right, of course.

Sherlock dressed for the day and went out to the kitchen for his morning cup of tea. John, already up and dressed, was sitting at the table with the paper and his own mug. Barely looking up from the page, he mumbled a "morning". Sherlock didn't respond. He merely poured a cup of tea, went to the couch and lay down to drink. Okay, what was on today's agenda? There were some fresh eyeballs in the fridge, from Molly at the morgue, just begging to be coated with acid; that would be fun. Who knew, maybe a case would pop up. It wouldn't be very interesting, they never were…

"So…last night."

He choked on his tea. John still hadn't looked at him, pretending that whatever was in the paper was more interesting than what he had just said. Come to think of it, John didn't have a bruise on his cheek yesterday, and that was right where he had gotten hit in the…it wasn't a dream.

He breathed slowly, trying to keep his heart rate down. "What about last night?"

"You know very well what. You screamed loud enough to wake half the neighborhood, had some kind of fit on your bedroom floor, knocked down Mrs. Hudson, and then fell asleep on our door mat. If this is normal…"

He sighed. John had only been living with him for two months now, and the dream had only resurfaced last night. "No, John, last night's…theatrics do not happen every night. I apologize, both to Mrs. Hudson and to you, for my abruptness. It won't happen again, I'm sure."

"You said you had a nightmare." John finally looked away from the paper and at his flatmate with an impartial expression. "Care to talk about it?"

"Why should I?"

"I don't know. Because whatever it was seemed to upset you."

Another sip of tea. "You know emotions aren't really my area, John."

"You were certainly feeling something last night. I would call it a panic attack if not for the nightmare."

"I am perfectly fine. Night terrors are not uncommon; they are mostly triggered by stress, or in my case boredom. Are there any new cases?"

"Don't change the subject." He rested his head on his hand in a thoughtful expression. "What was your dream about?"

"Irrelevant. I deleted it." If only that were true. "And since when are you a therapist, anyway?"

"Come off it, Sherlock, I'm concerned about you. It's what friends do."

Sherlock chuckled. "Oh, John, when will you learn? Caring is not an advantage."

John stood up violently, nearly knocking his mug over. "Well maybe that's how the Holmes boy live, but the rest of the world takes great pride in protecting the people they care about. Christ, Sherlock, haven't you ever cared about anyone besides yourself?"

The silence could have been cut with a knife. Sherlock looked away from John's laser eyes, unconsciously twirling the beads around his wrist. The door had cracked at that last remark. His eyes closed. "Yes." He breathed.

Before John could respond, Sherlock's phone rang. He jumped to answer it. "Yes? Ah, Lestrade, what do you have for me? Oh?...Yes, you're quite right. Where?...The shipyard? Perfect. Ten minutes." He terminated the call and ran for the stairs. "We've got a case. Finish that on the run, we've got…"

"Yeah, I heard. Ten minutes." John was already chugging the last of his tea. The two grabbed their coats and Sherlock's scarf and rushed out onto the street to hail a cabby. "Just so you know, this conversation isn't over." John whispered as a cab pulled up to the curb.

"I'm sure." Sherlock whispered back. He decided to examine this case a bit longer than usual; delaying the inevitable wasn't his style, but in this particular case…He sighed as they got in the cab. Something told him this case would be different from the others. Something was stirring in London today. He could feel it.

…

_ Something was going to change today. She could feel it the second she woke up. It was strange; she hadn't really SEEN anything for a while now, ever since they had come to the city. But just getting up, she had felt her perception coming back. Yes, something was defiantly coming. Something big. _

_ She stood by the window with a bit of toast from breakfast, watching the traffic wiz by. Maybe he would send her payment today. Oh, but that was ridiculous, she had only given him the finished work last night. That was nowhere near enough time. Sipping her tea, she rolled her shoulders and grimaced. The old battle wounds were acting up today. Maybe it had something to do with last night's dream. It had been THAT dream, of course. Even after all these years, nothing terrified her more than THAT dream. She had hoped it would fade over time. But it simply burrowed deeper into her mind, creeping to the surface when she least expected it. _

_ Memories of blue eyes, pain, and blood._

**AN: Hello, readers. Just a few standard notes here. **

**First of all, I don't own anything to do with the _Sherlock _TV show. All credit for it's creation belongs to BBC. If I did own them, my parents would not have mortgage payments and I would be typing this from my private villa in Italy. Ahh, if only...**

**Second, I know how many of these Sherlock x OC's exist in this enormous fandom, but I genuinely like the story I'm coming up with here and wanted to throw my hat into the ring. Over the course of this tale, if I have taken any of your ideas, I sincerely apologize. **

**Thirdly, because of my schedule (I'm nearing the end of high school), scatter-brain, and the fact that I'm still writing this, there won't be a regular update day. Sorry.**

**Fourthly, the quote in my summery can be found in _The New Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, _a collection of newly minted stories based off of (and occasionally making fun of) the style of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The exact credit, which I didn't have room to give in my summary, belongs to Barry Jones, author of the story entitled "The Two Footman". Wonderful book; any Sherlock Holmes enthusiast among you should give it a go. **

**And lastly, thank you for your interest, and hope you like what's to come. Please review! - Gavi**


	2. Bomb

**Hello there. Sorry for the wait, but I hope you enjoy this. **

Chapter 2: Bomb

John kicked another discarded soda can out of the way and tried not to get too annoyed about it. Ordinarily, the ferry dock would be packed at this time of day with tourists getting ready to go on a river cruise of the Thames. It was really a very popular spot, being so close to Big Ben and the London Eye; this was also the reason for most of the mess. Tourists, John thought. No sense of preservation. He and Sherlock had had to go through a crowd of them on the way in, complaining to anyone who would listen about the cruise they would be missing out on.

John personally didn't see the reason for them to be upset. At least they obviously had well-paying jobs, or they wouldn't have the money to be here in the first place. He certainly wouldn't have been able to afford a cruise by now. For the last few months, he and Sherlock had been living mostly off his army pension, with a little help from Mycroft when the rent was due. He sometimes wondered how Sherlock had afforded Mrs. Hudson's flat before they had met; he didn't even get paid for the cases he took, much less have a job. Speaking of jobs…

"So, any details you want to share with me before we get there, or am I going in blind this time?" He practically had to jog to keep up with Sherlock's strides. This must be an interesting one if he was in such a hurry.

Sherlock barely glanced back at him. "He didn't say much. I suppose we'll find out soon enough. Really, though, *something* at least mildly interesting must be going on if he decided to call me in. Lestrade, not matter how much I badger him, isn't a complete idiot."

Sherlock rarely, if ever, went into a case blind like this; he had obviously taken the case to delay the conversation about his dream. He should have seen this before. Any port in a storm, right? He scowled. This dream of Sherlock's really had him worried. His flatmate rarely showed any type of emotion beyond annoyance, and suddenly a random nightmare turns him into a bundle of nerves. John didn't have to be a physiatrist to know a panic attack when he saw one. Something in that dream had upset Sherlock badly, and it hurt that he wouldn't talk about it. He had saved Sherlock's life when they first met, for crying out loud! And he had stayed by his side when everyone warned him it wasn't a good idea. Didn't that make him trustworthy, at least a little? Not to Sherlock bloody Holmes, obviously.

Sgt. Donovan was waiting for them at the taped-off edge of the scene, ready to lift the tape up for the "Freak" and his friend to crawl under. "Over there." She said without any preamble; it was well known that she and Sherlock weren't on the best of terms. "Be careful; the blood hasn't dried yet. Guv!" she shouted in the direction she had been pointing. "Freaks here!"

Sherlock didn't even acknowledge her, instead striding over to Detective Inspector Lestrade. By the time John reached them (actually taking the time to say hello to Sally first), both men were bending over the body in deep thought.

"Uh, boys? Can I get in on…Oh, God!" John recoiled from the corner with his hand pressed to his mouth. Even after all the crime scenes he'd had to investigate with Sherlock, and the military before that, sometimes what people did to other people just threw him for a loop.

The body was a mess. It wasn't so much the four stab wounds caked with still-wet blood on the chest as it was the grey brain matter laying in oozing chunks in the blood circle around what used to be a head. John put his hands behind his head and hoped fervently that the victim had been dead before his assailant had smashed his skull. Though the stab wounds meant otherwise. Taking a deep breath, he turned back to the body and listened to Sherlock bounce deductions off the river water and wooden dock.

"Victim at least 35 years of age. Works at a fast-food restaurant in Greenwich. Insomniac." he carefully pulled up the man's left sleeve," Heroin addict. Right-handed. Divorced, no children, four Persian cats." He looked at Lestrade with a _you're an idiot _look that was usually reserved for Anderson. "You could have gotten all this without my help; it's all there in black and white. Look for his girlfriend or his dealer and call it a day. Honestly, sometimes I think you do this just to get me out of the house every once in a while."

"Sherlock," Lestrade said, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "we did know…well, most of that before you came. That's not why I called you."

"Then why? Spit it out, man, I haven't got all day."

"We called you because of this." Lestrade put on a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and picked up a cardboard box that was sitting next to the victim. "This was found next to the body."

Both Sherlock and John rushed forward to look inside. Both looked back at Lestrade completely confused. "Greg, these are books." John said. "Really old looking books. What's so dangerous about that, other than finding them at the scene of a murder?"

"Half right. They *were* books, until someone decided to hollow out the pages and fill them with something." Lestrade used one finger to carefully flip the top book open to around the middle. He was right; the inside of the book had been hollowed in the shape of a cylinder, about the size of a thermos.

"What do you think was inside" John asked of both men.

Sherlock didn't answer, as was customary at this point in the case; he just reached into his pocket for his phone, fiddled for a moment, then started waving it over the hollow book. It started to emit a continuous beeping noise.

"Radiation detecting app." Sherlock announced, in answer to the question John had been about to ask. "Designed it myself. You can tell by the noise if there is radiation present, and if so, what substance is emitting it."

"And?" Lestrade asked.

"Uranium." Sherlock said in a flat voice. "Someone in this city is apparently building a nuclear bomb." Lestrade's jaw dropped. John put his head in his hands, rubbing his temples. It had always amazed him that Sherlock could present even this kind of life-altering information while still being calm and dethatched. It was almost an art form, except when it was, you know, announcing the possible end of humanity.

"Shush. Not so loud, the tourists will hear." Lestrade whispered, gesturing toward the sidewalk above them.

"Let them hear!" Sherlock half-shouted, turning toward the crowd. "Their lives are in…"

He stopped dead in the middle of the tirade they all knew was coming, and did something completely uncharacteristic of Sherlock for the second time that day. He just stared blankly into space, his eyes focused on a point in the crowd just behind Lestrade's head. When he didn't move, or even seem to breathe, for almost 30 seconds, John decided to intervene.

"Um, Sherlock? You okay?"

No response.

Seriously concerned now, John elbowed past the confused and gaping Lestrade and shook Sherlock's shoulder. The other man nearly jumped out of his shoes, as if he had forgotten anyone was even watching. His head snapped toward John, his eyes glowing with something…indefinable. John wasn't sure whether to label it pain, sadness or joy, but it's intensity in Sherlock's eyes scared him, and he took a few steps back. He felt like he had just seen Sherlock's soul, or at least the emotions that he kept locked up.

Sherlock blinked, and in an instant the look was gone. He held his head high, and looked at the two men with the same air of superiority he had had on a moment ago.

"Are you okay?" John repeated.

"Oh course." Sherlock said, his word clipped and hard. He glanced around at the rest of the investigation team, who by now had all turned to stare at the pair of them. "Well, what are you stupid puppets sitting around for? We have a possible national emergency on our hands and you're sitting around twittling your thumbs!" He turned him attention back to John and Lestrade. "Honestly, the minds of average people. So easily distracted."

Before either man could say anything about what had just happened, an intern ran down the dock and gave a piece of paper to Lestrade. After reading it, the detective looked up. "Dental records on our friend here just came through. Name of Ethan Kingston. Resident of Greenwich, divorced…"

"Never mind, we've already heard that." Sherlock waves the information away. John decides to put in his two cents. "The important thing here is why he was killed. He might have been picking up the bomb material. In that case, my guess is that someone knew he was coming here and why, decided to kill him, and stole the uranium for themselves, probably to sell. Or, they just didn't feel like dying of fallout anytime soon." He turned to Lestrade. "Of course, he could have just discovered the books by mistake, and the real bomb-maker showed up and killed him. Are there any other clues?"

"Yes." Lestrade went to the forensics table and came back with a piece of ordinary, crumpled looking paper in a plastic bag. "This was found in the victim's pocket."

Sherlock took the bag and stared at it intently; John walked to his side to get a glimpse over his elbow. What he saw really took his breath away. It was a pencil drawing of almost the exact scene in which they were standing, minus the forensics team and the body. It wasn't a normal sketch someone might draw to give you directions, though; in fact, if John hadn't seen the carbon rubbing off at the edges and the slight smudging where it had been crumpled, he would have thought it was a black-and-white photograph. The perspective was from the far right of the dock, showing the waiting area on the left, and the gates separating it from the water on the right. Up against the gate, almost right where they were standing, was a cardboard box.

"Yes," said Lestrade, anticipating their question. "That's exactly where we found the box originally."

"Ok, we can defiantly scratch the second part, then." John glanced up at Sherlock to gauge his reaction. His face was entirely clinical and vacant, but his eyes held a watered-down version of the same emotion as before. He wanted to ask his friend again if he was alright, but decided against it. Sherlock would only snap again, and there was time enough for that later. "What do you think?" he asked instead.

Sherlock blinked, then ran a careful thumb over the bottom right hand corner of the paper. "The artist signed it." He said. John looked. It was true. The actual letters of the signature had been ruined when the paper was crumpled, but something about the signature was intelligible. A long line ran down from the last letter under the words and curved straight down. With a few more lines, it had been turned into the letter F.

"Well, any ideas?" Lestrade said, eyeing the pair of them.

Sherlock handed the drawing back to the Inspector. As he did so, John noticed his partner glance back at the tourist crowd, as if what had distracted him before was still there. "Four, at least; one so far-fetched it burns." He turned and started back toward the sidewalk. "Time is of the essence. I'll keep in touch."

As John turned to follow, Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. "Is he ill or something?" he said, nodding his head at Sherlock. "He seems really…distracted today."

For a moment, John considered telling Greg about the nightmare; as one of Sherlock's oldest acquaintances he might know more about the situation. But he decided against it. If it was truly important, he would find a way to get Sherlock to tell him. "I'm not sure. He's been like that all day."

"Well, see if you can break him out of it." Lestrade let go and headed over toward the rest of the team. "We have a city to save."

**Well, what do you think? What distracted Sherlock? How is his dream involved? Did I write Lestrade decently? R and R, if it's not too much trouble. **

**Also, to my extreme disappointment, I still don't own _Sherlock. _If anyone can hook me up with him, I would be more than happy to pay. Hope to post again soon (I only allow myself to post when I have two chapters ready before it, sorry). See ya!**

**Gavi**


	3. Stalk

Chapter 3: Stalk

John almost had to sprint to catch up with Sherlock as he left the dock. He had already been left behind at several dozen crime scenes, and since they had important things to discuss, he didn't fancy having that happen this time.

"Sherlock, wha…what's going on?" he said, puffing slightly. "First that nightmare, than you start blanking out in the middle of things…is this some kind of weird mood swing or something? Because if it is, you need to snap out of it before you drive me completely insane."

Sherlock stopped at the curb just past the angry mob, took a deep breath, and looked around him with a pleasant smile on his face. "Uranium bombs and thieves with clues in drawings. What an exciting morning. Why don't we walk to lunch, it's such a lovely day."

With that, he turned down the street and started toward the inner workings of Westminster without a second glance at his companion. John was beyond exasperated; just what was Sherlock's game here? This was insane, even for the world's first consulting detective! One thing was certain: if that dream was the cause of it all, it would be the first topic of conversation when they got home.

John snapped out of his musings; Sherlock was already halfway down the street and he had to run to catch up. This walking thing was the capstone to an already odd morning; usually by now, he would have hailed a cab, lost in his theories and leaving his partner to find his own way home. Instead the pair of them crossed the street and started back toward Charring Cross, the detective muttering to himself and getting odd looks from the people around them.

John sighed. "So, are you going to tell me anything? Because in case you haven't noticed, I'm starting to get more than a little annoyed" he said as he finally caught up. "I'm serious, I'm not sure I could put up with this sort of behavior long term."

"Come off it, John, if you had wanted to leave my company that badly you would have done so last month when I cracked the security code on your laptop. Or after that time I made you follow me through the sewers under Cannel Street. Or back when we first met and I made you text a serial killer. No, you enjoy it too much to leave, Dr. Watson." He gave a little half-smile, and then continued. "And, since I know you're curious, we're not taking the cab back to Baker Street because someone is following us."

"What? Who's…" John's head snapped back to the street behind them. He didn't recognize any of their fellow pedestrians, but that didn't mean Sherlock didn't.

"Don't look, John!" the detective snapped. "Honestly, you'd think an army man would be able to grasp the concept of stealth."

"Well, at least in the army we knew what the enemy looked like, mostly." John faked calm by putting his hands in his pockets and sighing as if he were bored. "Do you think they're dangerous?"

"Isn't everyone?" Sherlock sighed himself, turning up his collar against the first few drops of an approaching storm. "Though considering we just left a crime scene that involved a possible threat to human existence, I'd say more dangerous than usual. Act nonchalant and try to keep up."

As the storm got worse, most of their fellow pedestrians hailed cabs or ducked into shops. Those who didn't put their hoods up or tipped down their hats, obscuring their faces. As they continued on through the storm, John kept glancing back on the path to catch onto which of the people behind them was their tail (despite what Sherlock said, he was quite good at being stealthy). By the time the pair had rounded the Circle and reached Pall Mall, he had picked out the small figure in a hooded coat; it was the only person who had been behind them all the way from the docks. What's worse, they were carrying a thick box under one arm (the uranium, perhaps? John wasn't in any hurry to find out.)

Halfway up the street, Sherlock abruptly grabbed John's arm, pulling him into an alley on their right. They simultaneously sprinted down the wet lane, hauled themselves up a fire escape and tumbled in the window of a disused flat. John quickly took off his coat and wrung the water out of it, hoping he wouldn't catch cold from all this. Sherlock, who in John's experience had no cares about such things, stuck his soaked head right back into the downpour in an attempt to catch the stalker in the act. John peeked out as well, but he put his training to use again, concealing himself in the window frame.

In a few seconds, the figure John had singled out turned into the alley. John examined it closely, trying his hand at Sherlockian deduction. It was apparently a woman, in a plain dark rain slicker with a hood that obscured her face from this angle. She wore slightly heeled leather boots that weren't tall or particularly flashy, and gloves of the same material. She was still carrying her earlier load, but she had slipped it under her slicker for protection, so John didn't have the faintest idea what it could be (or if it was primed to explode). As a doctor, he couldn't help but notice how tight the coat was on her frame: naturally thin or anorexic? Or both? Or neither? This sort of things really was more difficult than Sherlock made it out to be.

She started when she had turned the corner; obviously she had expected to still see the two of them in the alleyway. She walked all the way to the end of the alley and looked out onto the street behind, the boots clicking sharply with each steps. He was rather surprised she didn't take a closer look at any of her surroundings as a professional would have done (professional was a relative term; "someone with experience" was a better way to put it). She simply leaned against the wall and stared straight ahead of her, with a dejected little slump in her shoulders. It was a bit eerie, actually; she didn't even jump as the thunder boomed overhead. Sherlock leaned a bit further out the window in an insane attempt to see her face, but it didn't work; he slipped back inside dejectedly, splashing water on the threadbare carpet.

After a few minutes of her unbroken staring contest with the wall, the women reached into the front of her coat, pulled out an old-fashioned-looking pocket watch, checked the time, and started badly. The package under her coat almost slipped from her hands; John's heart leapt for his throat as he waited for the blast that would end London. It didn't come. When he opened his eyes, the woman was already turning around the corner to head the way they had all been originally walking, her bundle secure under her arm.

Sherlock leaned out once more to watch her go, but John grabbed his flatmate's shirt and hauled him back inside pining him against the wall. Thunder still crashed overhead.

"What are you thinking?" he hissed into his flatmate's dripping ear. "If she had looked up, or if you had fallen, we'd probably be dead by now."

Sherlock shoved him in the chest. "Don't be so dull. We really have no idea if she's even connected to the case or not."

"You said it yourself: she followed us all the way from the dock, where you practically screamed "Nuclear bomb" in front of a bunch of tourists, might I add. Why didn't we stop to question her, by the way? That box she was carrying could have had the uranium in it."

The disgruntled detective removed his coat and shuck the water out on the floor. "Of course it didn't have uranium in it! She nearly dropped it! If it had been dangerous, a cautious girl like that would have handled it much more carefully. Furthermore, we didn't stop to question her because we are going to be chivalrous."

"Excuse me? When have you ever been chivalrous to a potential suspect? From what I've seen, you just scare most of them half to death to get the information you want."

He rung out the scarf as well. "I did consider doing just that, but I deduced from her actions that that wasn't the best idea. She was confused and nervous; that's not the posture of a professional, as I'm sure you're aware."

John just nodded. He knew better than to interrupt when Sherlock was exposing someone's life. He'd just start in on you.

The detective continued. "From her appearance, I'd say she has a live-in job that doesn't allow for much rest. Can't be a manor house servant, that sort of thing went out of style years ago, but definitely something similar. My best guess is a maid in a upscale and slightly old-fashioned hotel. Her boots and gloves are worn, and the coat out of fashion, so they most likely don't pay her well, if at all." Finished, he replaced his outer garments. "If we hurry, we can follow her to her place of employment and meet her on her own ground, as it were. I caught a hint of a red skirt under the coat, but there are at least 15 London hotels above 3 stars that employ red in their color scheme; given the current danger, it would take too long to stake out at each one of them." He went back to the window and swung a leg out onto the fire escape. "Hurry, John, or she'll get too far away!"

"Sherlock, look at me."

He stopped. "What?"

"Look at me. You didn't look at me once since I pulled you back in."

The detective sighed, pulled his leg back in, and turned to face his partner. His eyes were steeled and cold, but the rest of his face looked strangely alive. In fact, almost more alive than John had even seen them, only excluding the 3rd time he had made the flat's toaster oven explode. Sighing exasperantly, he ran both his hands through his hair, sending a shower of droplets down on the carpet. "John," he said, "I realize I have been acting a bit out of character today, and I also know you are angry with me. I promise, if you let me follow that woman now, I will…I can't explain all of it, but I will try to tell you what my dream was about. Agreed?"

His expression reminded John of a puppy who wanted a treat. He rubbed his temples; this was going to be a long day. "Oh, all right, but remember, you promised. Now come on, like you said, she could get away."

Sherlock grinned evilly. Both men threw themselves back out onto the fire escape just as the furious landlord ran into the flat with a broom. Instead of attacking them, he just stood dumb in the door-frame. "Are you…Sherlock Holmes?"

The detective didn't answer, so John took the liberty. "Yeah, so sorry about this. Send us the bill for the dry cleaning, if you need to. If you'll excuse me, we have to save the city." Even the army doctor couldn't suppress a giggle as he slid down the fire escape to join his partner. Fame did, apparently, have some perks to it.

**Hey, guys. I'm planing to finish Chapter 5 of this today, so I figured I'd get this out for you nice and early. Hope you enjoy! Read and review, please. **

**Also, quick shout-out to FeeKee, my only reviewer so far. Thank you so much, sweetie. Nice to know somebody's actually reading this:)  
**

**Until we meet again, Gavi**


	4. Rosemont

Chapter 4: Rosemont

It was truly a grand building, probably much more posh than anything either of them had a right to be either in or near. White limestone blocks soared at least 15 stories high, dwarfing the smaller building around it. Each window had a little red canopy and a flowerbox filled with red geraniums, and the loner windows on the main floor had scarlet drapes on the inside. The front door had a larger canopy which had a perfect rose outlined in gold, along with letters proclaiming "The Rosemont Inn" in curvy script. All in all, at least in John's opinion, the whole place looked like a giant birthday cake that someone had decided to drop in a rose garden. Much too posh for him, but, hey, he was no foreign dignitary.

"Are you sure?" he whispered to Sherlock, as they sat in the café across the street from the gates pretending to read newspapers. Sherlock was doing the crossword at a speed that could have set a new world record, and he still had the presence of mind to answer the other man.

"Of course, I'm sure. I saw her duck into a staff door in that alleyway behind the front garden 5 minutes ago. Honestly, John, you seem to think I can't multitask."

John sighed. "Oh, you're absolutely right. I don't think you can multitask. That experiment with the boiled sheep's blood pretty much proved that."

"Don't start with that again. There was only minor damage to the stove, and with a little cleaner, it came off the ceiling quite well."

"Yes, but it never did come out of my jumper. Or the saucepan." The long-suffering doctor turned a page in the paper. "So, is there going to be any sort of plan, or are we just going to march in to the concierge and say, "Hello. Has a women in a raincoat, who may or may not be on your staff, just come past here?"

"Of course there's a plan, I'm not an idiot. And she didn't go through the front door; I just told you she went in the back alley. Stay with me, John, it's going to be a long day." Sherlock finished the crossword with a flourish and began staring at the inn's drive-up full time. "The place is mostly inhabited with the rich and stylish government set; I hope you've at least managed to notice that. We'll need disguises." He stood up, folding the completed crossword into his pocket. "Come on, John."

"You were in such a hurry to get here and you're leaving just like that?"

"She both lives and works here, remember? She's not going anywhere; we have all the time we need."

"At least, until someone, somewhere, finishes with that uranium."

"Exactly."

…

"I feel utterly ridiculous" John said, pulling at his collar and straightening his fake beard. "And what's more, absolutely no one in that hotel is going to buy it. Like you said, they see rich blokes here every day. Unless you were born a count or an earl or something, the concierge will just send us back out on our backsides."

"Stop being so negative, John. You forget, I've done this sort of thing many times before. They'll buy it, trust me." Sherlock used his new silk gloves to clean a speck of dirt off his glasses, then used a compact full of grey dust to silver the hair that poked out from under his hat. "It'll be mostly you that'll attract attention. So remember, you're to speak to no one. Let me handle this."

"Me? Attract attention? You're the one in the three-piece suit!" Unfortunately, the cabbie then announced their arrival at the front drive of the Rosemont Inn.

The detective straightened his tie, turned to the driver, and said in his Oxford accent, "Well, its about time, you clotpole! The traffic wasn't heavy enough to constitute these kinds of delays." The cabbie stared at them; Sherlock scowled and crossed his legs and arms. "I'm waiting."

"For what?" the cabbie said, more than a little afraid now.

Sherlock sighed dramatically, and John had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. "Open the door, you idiot! I swear, Gunther," the detective turned to his companion with a look of complete repulsion, "we are never taking public transportation again. And the car had better be fixed by tomorrow."

"Right, sir, so sorry, sir." John didn't really have to work to turn his face into a mask of irritation as he turned to the driver. "Don't worry, sir, I'll get it. He's not a bad man, really; he's just been off a bit since his mistress ran off."

That said, John opened the door for Sherlock while a harassed-looking hotel porter took out the six weighted suitcases marked with initials and numbers from the backseat, plus a small plain valise meant for John. The driver pulled away from the curb as soon as John paid him, tires squealing and open trunk banging about. Sherlock smiled for a moment before turning on the porter

"Well, what are you just standing around for? Take those inside at once, we're horribly late."

As they followed the hotel porter through the doors, John couldn't stop his mouth from dropping to his chest. The pink lobby walls rose six stories into a giant glass roof that must have let in lots of sunlight when the sun was actually out, supported by Greek columns. High-polished brass shone on every surface, from the railing of the various floors to the armrests of the chairs and table ends. He could distinctly see detailed cherubs smiling down at him from the column tops, directly contrasting the dreary faces of the people below. In fact, the whole St. Valentine-ish theme contrasted the inn's clients, a good deal of whom seemed to be lounging in various velvet chairs scattered around the hall. Most seemed to be wearing high-end suits and the latest fashions, along with looks on their faces that implied they had recently sucked the juice from a lemon. The whole place was quiet as a bloody mausoleum, too, the only sound being some faint laughter from the upstairs lounge and the creaking of an old-fashioned elevator. If sitting still in bloody boring silence means you're rich, John decided, I could live longer without it. He mentally shook himself and joined Sherlock and the porter at the long polished-oak concierge desk.

"Good afternoon, sirs, and welcome to the Rosemont Inn." whispered the only worker at the desk. Even this thin sound rebounded off the high ceiling in the dumbfounded quiet. "My name is Peter. How may I assist you today?"

Sherlock cleared his thought and spoke loudly to the thin ginger-haired man, breaking the glassy silence with a tactless hammer. "Well, of course there is something you can help me with, young man, or I wouldn't have come up here in the first place. Now, since you obviously don't recognize me, I am…"

"Sir, I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you must lower your voice." Somehow, without getting any louder or even a change of tone, the youth managed to cut off Sherlock mid-tirade. "You have arrived during our afternoon 'break', and many of our guests and employees are resting. If I may say so, sir, you are being very rude. Now, you want a room, yes? Name, please."

Sherlock blinked, caught completely off guard. John smirked. Sometimes, if you cut the detective off in the middle of what he was saying, he would lose his place, and therefore his interest in the topic. Unluckily for the poor boy, this was not one of those times. "As I was saying before you so rudely interrupted," he was at least speaking more quietly now, " I am Sir Geoffrey St. Kyle, Earl of Crestwood, and this is my manservant, Gunter." John politely tipped his hat, and Sherlock continued. "We have a reservation made for the next two weeks, my usual suite if you please."

The young man typed the fake name into his computer, the sound again amplified by the ceiling and the forced calm. Suddenly, he frowned. He typed a little more and clicked the mouse a few times, deep in thought. John felt a bead of sweat run down his hairline. He stared at the screen a few moments more, and then turned to the porter still holding the luggage. "Put those down, Marcus, and go back outside." The boy was startled, but did as he was told. The concierge took off his reading glasses and looked calmly at the two men before him. "Your real names, if you please, sirs, before I have you thrown out."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock whispered, trying for offended. "What kind of a question is that?"

"The correct one to ask." The young man said, his eyes glinting. "In fact, I only bothered to look it up at all so Marcus wouldn't take a fright. The Earl of Crestwood's name is Stanley, he hasn't been to London in ages on account of his gout, and anyway his Lordship always takes a standard double on the second floor with a view of the river, not a suite. Either you tell me who you are, or I am going to call the police right now and absolutely ruin the break."

John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock looked at John. Both nodded at the same time. John tugged off his beard, and Sherlock removed the hat and glasses. The youth's jaw dropped.

"Sherlock Holmes." He muttered to himself. He then snapped to himself and leaned in closer to the table. "You're bloody Sherlock Holmes. And you're John Watson!" The glint in his eyes changed from sternness to amazement. "You don't know what meeting you means to me, sirs, I'm a huge fan of the blog! That case with the ninjas, sirs…I was on the edge of my seat just reading it! Terribly sorry I gave you a hard time, but we get all kinds coming in here, you can never be too careful. Are you on a case, sirs?"

John chuckled to himself, and seeing as Sherlock was about to say something rude, he cut him off. "Actually, "the doctor whispered, "we are on a case, and a very important one. And since you know who we are, maybe you could help us, Mr…"

"Peter, sir. Peter Kingsley, junior concierge in training. Could I really be of some help to you?"

"John." Sherlock said in a warning tone. "Since when do you ask for help on cases from random people we meet? He could be the women's accomplice trying to distract us."

"What? What woman?" Peter said warily.

"He's not a random person, Sherlock, he's a hotel concierge, which means he's privy to viable information that we could actually use. Now, I know you know he's got an electronic database on this hotel in that computer, so why don't you just make this painless and ask him?"

Sherlock looked from his irritated doctor to the beaming young man on the other side of the desk and gave a melodramatic sigh. "Oh, all right." Leaning forward until his nose was almost touching the desk, he whispered, "Do you have a way to keep track of all the times any of your fellow employees leave the hotel grounds during the day?"

Peter started. "Um, yes. Anytime an employee goes through an outside door they have to scan their thumbprint. We've got only the best security here, sir. Is there a time you need me to look up?"

"Yes. Anyone entering through the left alley entrance approximately two hours ago."

"Yes, sir!" Peter whispered enthusiastically. He turned and typed some more, at one point scanning his own thumb into a small sensor on the desk. Within a minute, out came a "got it, sir. The same person left at 12:00 when break started and came back around 2:30. Let me just see…" He clicked on something on the screen, and then physically backed away, his face pale. "Oh, no, sir, there must be some mistake. There's no way this is the person you want."

Sherlock nearly hammered his fist into the desk out of impatience, but he was stopped abruptly by John. "Oh course it's who we want you little urchin, just give me the name."

"Sherlock, be polite. You realize he could be fired for this."

"I don't really care, you know what's at stake here. Just give me the name!"

The last words came out as a shout, followed be a chorus of shushing from all corners of the room. Peter looked at the detectives, his eyes tearing up and darting between the two colleges. John glared into Sherlock's face only to be met with a typical look of desperation, along with a fourth appearance of today's 'nightmare' emotion.

"Please, Peter, "he said with forced calm, "the name."

Peter steeled himself, and said with great effort:"Ms. Simon."

"Simon?" the detective said with a twinge of horror in his own voice.

"Yes, sir, Ms. Simon, our librarian. But I swear to you, sir, she would never be mixed up in anything like this! She's…she's…well, come on, I'd better show you. I can tell you wouldn't believe me on my own word. Alex!" he called loudly. A teenage girl with too much makeup pulled herself off the floor and came over. "Please take over for me a moment. But…but not _her_, sirs, surely! I can only think of one reason she'd even attempt to get mixed up in this sort of thing… but she's my friend, she'd never hurt anyone, really, sirs…"

**To my unending sadness, I still don't own Sherlock. Please R+R. **


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